Homosexual Murderers
by frozen-delight
Summary: There are two things Dean's ashamed of: how much he liked being a demon and how much he likes fucking Sam. [Coda to 10x06 "Ask Jeeves". Sam/Dean.]


Warning for angsty, porny and possibly embarrassing incest. This is the first time I've ever tried myself at something halfway explicit. Apologies for any and all awkwardness, as well as all remaining mistakes.

* * *

><p><strong>Homosexual Murderers<strong>

There are two things Dean's ashamed of: how much he liked being a demon and how much he likes fucking Sam.

_oo0oo_

"Those cougars were right," Dean pants, threading his hands through Sam's hair where his head is pressed into the crease of Dean's hip. "You do have long fingers."

In answer, Sam twists said fingers where they're buried deep inside him and bites down on Dean's hip, enough to draw blood. It's an exquisite kind of pain, and Dean throws his head back on the pillow, yelping; and okay, maybe that sound is a bit embarrassing, but his relief at not having to feel the quiet, insistent itch on his forearm for a second or two is just too intense.

It's an itch to sneak out of the motel in the middle of the night and to summon Crowley – to make him take away the Mark or to make him give back the Blade or to… he doesn't really know what.

It's an itch to relive that perfect moment where he stabbed Lester, piercing the fabric his shirt and his skin with the Blade, then slowly pushing it in deeper and twisting it, dragging things out, savoring the sight of Lester's bulging eyes and the choking noises erupting from his throat, until Dean felt the limp body slump against him, the sticky, warm blood trickling over his fingers all the while.

And it's always there.

Dean only fully notices that Sam's replaced his fingers with his cock when his mouth suddenly crushes against Dean's. His teeth and tongue and the pounding rhythm of his hips chase away any memory of Lester and bitch at Dean almost as eloquently as his stupid, bitchy face. He's wearing the same wounded, indignant expression he had back when he was ten and Dad threw away his favorite book to make room in his duffel for an extra gun.

"What?" Dean asks gruffly, because he's never been very good at ignoring Sam.

"What do you think? I'm worried. And I'm pissed," Sam bites out against Dean's mouth, his voice gravelly. "You turn up the music and you kiss me senseless to shut me up, because you're an immature, selfish dolt who didn't get the memo that not talking about it doesn't actually make it all go away."

Dean doesn't say anything, just grinds down on Sam, smirking faintly when the latter swears under his breath. His little brother is way more coherent than anybody should be in this situation. On more occasions than one he'd managed to fill Dean in on his research of the day in perfect full sentences studded with five dollar words without even once breaking the rhythm of his strokes. Dean used to joke that Sam was lucky he was with him, since anyone else would be weirded out by his bedtalk. Dean's never told Sam that it weirds him out too. It's one of those cherished, dreaded things that are one hundred percent pure Sam, and it makes it impossible to forget that this is his little brother, whom he's known and taken care of from the cradle. Whom he should have taken better care of than to drag him into dingy motel beds.

"You know what happened the last time you shut me out like this?" Sam exclaims, his blown pupils enhancing his stormy expression. "In case you've forgotten – you fucking _died_, Dean. And then you became a demon."

Sam deepens the angle of his thrusts and the breath catches in Dean's throat. "It's not like you're letting me forget," Dean retorts breathlessly, tracing his hands over the flushed, glistening skin of his brother's biceps.

"Do you want to forget?" Sam asks him seriously.

There's a thousand snares to that question, or so it seems to Dean, so he doesn't answer it, neither for Sam nor for himself.

Sam sighs and places his hand over the Mark on Dean's forearm. His hand is big and easily covers it. If it weren't for the itch of want and guilt which thrums on mercilessly underneath his skin, Dean could almost pretend that it's no longer there. Except that every single time they did this since Dean came back Sam's hand ended up right here, and it's getting annoying and awkward as hell.

"If it bothers you that much, we could just chop off my arm, I guess," he offers wearily, "I can also shoot with my left."

Sam lets out a low, exasperated whine, his fingernails digging into the skin of Dean's forearm. "See? This is exactly what I'm talking about. You'd sacrifice your arm without second thought, but you're too much of a coward to talk to me."

Dean really can't understand why his brother insists on being such a bitch about this. "How about we rewind to the part where you were happily fucking into me _in silence_?" He mimes zipping his own lips and then runs his thumb over Sam's in a similar motion.

Sam huffs a humorless laugh. His warm breath tingles against Dean's finger. "You mean that part where I was torn between licking your gorgeous throat and beating some sense into you..." He sounds honestly aggrieved that sex and violence could mingle so.

"Oh Sammy," Dean murmurs and groans wantonly when his brother nips at his thumb. "You're welcome to do both as long as you don't ruin my face."

Sam rolls his eyes and Dean can see the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But Sam immediately tamps down on it. "But don't you see that's just crazy?" He takes his hand from Dean's forearm and waves it between them with increasing hysteria. "This is crazy! We are crazy –"

Dean isn't sure what his face does at those words. He's feeling rather too faint to know. But it must have done something, because the next thing he knows Sam's rhythm falters and all pissiness bleeds out of him, and then he's gazing down at Dean with something so raw and precious filtering through his dark, hooded eyes that it scares Dean. The idea that Sam loves him, maybe even as much as Dean loves him, has never ceased to be terrifying. "Whatever you're thinking, don't," Sam whispers fiercely, presses a soft kiss to Dean's mouth, adds, "I'm sorry." for good measure and kisses him again. Apologizing has always come so easily to Sam, Dean doesn't know how he does it.

Sam's moods and movements are a snow globe that Dean's been tilting and turning in his palm without knowing it – staring at it now, flakes of tenderness and sweet kisses are tumbling everywhere, caressing over him, covering him. All of a sudden Sam's careful with him, Dean sees, and he hates it.

He still remembers Sam telling him once, when they were both very, very drunk and Dean was slowly sliding in and out of him, _You're so sweet, Dean_. He topped it off with a peck to Dean's nose. Dean didn't speak to him for two days and afterwards they never mentioned the incident again. Rationally, Dean knows that this was no dig at his a notch or two less adventurous mating behavior, but he couldn't help but feel a little emasculated all the same. Because no matter how weird Sam might be around women, acting as though he doesn't even know where to put it, he's a wild, daring and relentless volcano of muscle and teeth once he's moved past the awkward hooking-up stage.

So when he started kissing Sam as soon as they reached the motel, Dean signed up for rough and fast, the way he always does. But he's no longer getting it. Instead it's suddenly all tender kisses and touches, and it's both too much and not enough.

Dean feels himself itching all over. He digs his heels into the grimy sheets and thinks back to the rush of pleasure he felt when he emptied his load of silver bullets into the shapeshifter's back. But there's something too clean and impersonal about death by gunshot, so he shakes the kaleidoscopic elements of the scene in his head until they reassemble in a more appealing shape. Now he shifts closer the fake maid, his footsteps echo hollowly on the parquet flooring. Hearing him, she whips around and points her gun at him, but he knocks it out of her hand in one quick, cold motion and stabs a silver butter knife right into her heart – her skin is warm, it sizzles, and she cries out, a high, shrill sound, and it's as calming as it is intoxicating. Distantly, Dean notes Sam coming with a muffled shout, but right before him, there's only the blood that slowly drips from the wound, drop by drop, discoloring her white apron. She coughs, she curses, she struggles, she slumps forward, boneless. He never lets go of the knife.

Then only does Dean see his brother again, truly, and Sam's eyes are wide and scared, like a child's, and that shouldn't be so arousing, but it is, and it's enough to finally push Dean over the edge.

_oo0oo_

Sam lies on top of Dean, still, and waits for the color to return to his brother's eyes.


End file.
